University of Virginia Library

Give me, ye sacred muses, to impart
The hidden secrets of your tuneful art;
Give me your awful mysteries to sing,
Unlock, and open wide, your sacred spring;
While from his infancy the Bard I lead,
And seat him on your mountain's lofty head;
Direct his course, and point him out the road
To sing in Epick strains an hero or a god.

What youth, whose gen'rous bosom pants for praise,
Will dare with me to beat those arduous ways?
O'er high Parnassus' painful steeps to go,
And leave the grov'ling multitude below:
Where the glad muses sing, and form the choir,
While bright Apollo strikes the silver lyre.
Approach thou first, great Francis, nor refuse
To pay due honours to the sacred muse;
While Gallia waits for thy auspicious reign,
'Till age compleats the monarch in the man;
Mean time the muse may bring some small relief,
To charm thy anguish, and suspend thy grief;
While guilty fortune's stern decrees detain
Thee, and thy brother in the realms of Spain;
Far, far transported from your native place,
Your country's, father's, and your friend's embrace!
Such are the terms the cruel fates impose
On your brave father, struggling with his woes,
These are their hard conditions:—They require
The sons, to purchase, and redeem the sire.
But yet, brave youth, from grief, from tears abstain,
Fate may relent, and heav'n grow mild again;
At last perhaps the glorious day may come,
The day that brings our royal exile home;
When, to thy native realms in peace restor'd,
The ravish'd crowds shall hail their passing lord;
When each transported city shall rejoice,
And nations bless thee with a publick voice;
To the throng'd fanes the matrons shall repair;
Absolve their vows; and breath their souls in pray'r.
'Till then, let ev'ry muse engage thy love,
With me at large o'er high Parnassus rove,
Range every bow'r, and sport in ev'ry grove.

First then observe that verse is ne'er confin'd
To one fixt measure, or determin'd kind;
Tho' at its birth it sung the gods alone,
And then religion claim'd it for her own;
In sacred verse addrest the deity,
And spoke a language worthy of the sky;
New themes succeeding bards began to chuse,
And in a wider field engag'd the muse;
The common bulk of subjects to rehearse
In all the rich varieties of verse.
Yet none of all with equal honours shine,
(But those which celebrate the pow'r divine,)
To those exalted measures which declare,
The deeds of heroes and the sons of war.
From hence posterity the name bestow'd
On this rich present of the delphick god;
Fame says, Phæmonoe in this measure gave
Apollo's answers from the Pythian cave.

But e'er you write, consult your strength, and chuse
A theme proportion'd justly to your muse.
For tho' in chief these precepts are bestow'd
On him, who sings an hero or a god;
To other themes their gen'ral use extends,
And serves in different views to different ends.
Whether the lofty muse with tragick rage
Would proudly stalk in buskins on the stage;
Or in soft elegies our pity move,
And show the youth in all the flames of love;
Or sing the shepherd's woes in humble strains,
And the low humours of contending swains;
These faithful rules shall guide the bard along
In every measure, argument, and song.

Be sure, (whatever you propose to write,)
Let the chief motive be your own delight,
And well-weigh'd choice;—A task injoin'd refuse,
Unless a monarch should command your muse.
(If we may hope those golden times to see,
When bards become the care of majesty.)
Free and spontaneous the smooth numbers glide,
Where choice determines, and our wills preside;
But, at command, we toil with fruitless pain,
And drag th' involuntary load in vain.

Nor, at its birth, indulge your warm desire,
On the first glimm'ring of the sacred fire;
Defer the mighty task; and weigh your pow'r;
And every part in every view explore;
And let the theme in different prospects roll
Deep in your thoughts, and grow into the soul.

But e'er with sails unfurld you fly away,
And cleave the bosom of the boundless sea;
A fund of words and images prepare,
And lay the bright materials up with care,
Which, at due time, occasion may produce,
All rang'd in order for the poet's use.
Some happy objects by meer chance are brought
From hidden causes to th' unconscious thought;
Which if once lost, you labour long in vain
To catch the ideal fugitives again.
Nor must I fail their conduct to extol
Who, when they lay the basis of the whole,
Explore the antients with a watchful eye,
Lay all their charms and elegancies by,
Then to their use the precious spoils apply.

At first without the least restraint compose,
And mould the future poem into prose;
A full and proper series to maintain,
And draw the just connection in a chain;
By stated bounds your progress to controul,
To join the parts, and regulate the whole.

And now 'tis time to spread the op'ning sails
Wide to the wanton winds, and flatt'ring gales;
'Tis time we now prescribe the genuine laws
To raise the beauteous fabrick with applause;
But first some method requisite appears
To form the boy; and mould his tender years.
In vain the bard the sacred wreath pursues,
Unless train'd up, and season'd to the muse.
Soon as the prattling innocent shall reach
To the first use and rudiments of speech,
Ev'n then, by Helicon he ought to rove,
Ev'n then the tuneful nine should win his love
By just degrees.—But make his guide your choice
For his chast phrase, and elegance of voice;
That he at first successfully may teach
The methods, laws, and discipline of speech;
Lest the young charge, mistaking right and wrong,
With vitious habits prejudice his tongue,
Habits, whose subtle seeds may mock your art,
And spread their roots and poison thro' his heart.
Whence none shall move me to approve the wretch,
Who wildly born above the vulgar reach,
And big with vain pretences to impart
Vast shows of learning, and a depth of art,
For sense, th' impertinence of terms affords;
An idle cant of formidable words;
The pedant's pride, and the delight of fools;
The vile disgrace, and lumber of the schools:
In vain the circling youths, a blooming throng,
Dwell on th' eternal jargon of his tongue.
Deluded fools!—The same is their mistake,
Who at the limpid stream their thirst may slake,
Yet choose the tainted waters of the lake.
Let no such pest approach the blooming care,
Deprave his style, and violate his ear;
But far, oh far, to some remoter place
Drive the vile wretch to teach a barb'rous race.

Now to the muse's stream the pupil bring,
To drink large draughts from the Pierian spring;
And from his birth the sacred bard adore,
Nurst by the nine, on Mincio's flow'ry shore;
And ask the gods his numbers to inspire,
With like invention, majesty, and fire.
He reads Ascanius' deeds with equal flame,
And longs with him to run at nobler game.
For youths of ages past he makes his moan,
And learns to pity years so like his own;
Which with too swift, and too severe a doom,
The fate of war had hurri'd to the tomb.
His eyes, for Pallas, and for Lausus, flow,
Mourn with their sires, and weep another's woe.
But when Euryalus, in all his charms,
Is snatch'd by fate from his dear mothers arms,
And as he rolls in death, the purple flood
Streams out, and stains his snowy limbs with blood,
His soul the pangs of gen'rous sorrow pierce,
And a new tear steals out at every verse.
Mean time with bolder steps the youth proceeds,
And the greek poets in succession reads;
Seasons to either tongue his tender ears;
Compares the heroes glorious characters;
Sees, how Æneas is himself alone,
The draught of Peleus' and Laertes' son;
How, by the poet's art, in one, conspire
Ulysses' conduct, and Achilles' fire.

But now, young bard, with strict attention hear,
And drink my precepts in at either ear;
Since a vast crowd of poets you may find,
Both of the Græcian, and Ausonian kind,
Learn hence what bards to quit or to pursue,
To shun the false, and to embrace the true;
Nor is it hard to cull each noble piece,
And point out every glorious son of Greece;
Above whose numbers Homer sits on high,
And shines supreme in distant majesty;
Whom with a rev'rent eye the rest regard,
And owe their raptures to the sov'reign bard;
Thro' him the god their panting souls inspires,
Swells every breast, and warms with all his fires.
Blest were the poets with the hallow'd rage,
Train'd up in that, and the succeeding age:
As to his time each poet nearer drew,
His spreading fame in just proportion grew.
By like degrees the next degen'rate race
Sunk from the height of honour to disgrace.
And now the fame of Greece extinguisht lies,
Her ancient language with her glory dies.
Her banisht princes mourn their ravisht crowns,
Driv'n from their old hereditary thrones;
Her drooping natives rove o'er worlds unknown,
And weep their woes in regions not their own;
She feels thro' all her states the dreadful blow,
And mourns the fury of a barb'rous foe.

But when our bards brought o'er th' Aonian maids
From their own Helicon to Tyber's shades;
When first they settled on Hesperia's plains,
Their numbers ran in rough unpolisht strains.
Void of the Græcian art their measures flow'd;
Pleas'd the wild satyrs, and the sylvan crowd.
Low shrubs, and lofty forests whilom rung,
With uncouth verse, and antiquated song;
Nor yet old Ennius sung in artless strains,
Fights, arms, and hosts embattel'd on the plains,
Who first aspir'd to pluck the verdant crown
From Græcian heads, and fix it on his own.
New wonders the succeeding bards explore,
Which slept conceal'd in nature's womb before;
Her awful secrets the bold poet sings,
And sets to view the principles of things;
Each part was fair, and beautiful the whole,
And every line was nectar to the soul.
By such degrees the verse, as ages roll'd,
Was stampt to form, and took the beauteous mould.
Ausonia's bards drew off from every part
The barb'rous dregs, and civiliz'd the art.
'Till like the day; all shining and serene,
That drives the clouds, and clears the gloomy scene,
Refines the air, and brightens up the skies,
See the majestick head of Virgil rise;
Phœbus' undoubted son!—who clears the rust
From the great Ancients, and shakes off their dust.
He on their works a nobler grace bestow'd;
He thought, and spoke in every word a god.
To grace this mighty bard, ye muses, bring
Your choicest flow'rs, and rifle all the spring;
See! how the Grecian bards, at distance thrown,
With rev'rence bow to this distinguisht son;
Immortal sounds his golden lines impart,
And nought can match his genius but his art.
Ev'n Greece turns pale, and trembles at his fame,
Which shades the lustre of her Homer's name.
'Twas then Ausonia saw her language rise
In all its strength, and glory to the skies;
Such glory never could she boast before,
Nor could succeeding poets make it more.
From that blest period the poetick state
Ran down the precipice of time and fate;
Degenerate souls succeed, a wretched train,
And her old fame at once drew back again.
One, to his genius trusts, in ev'ry part,
And scorns the rules and discipline of art.
While this, an empty tide of sound affords,
And roars and thunders in a storm of words.
Some, musically dull, all methods try
To win the ear with sweet stupidity;
Unruffled strains for solid wit dispense,
And give us numbers, when we call for sense.
'Till from th' hesperian plains and Tyber chas'd,
From Rome the banisht sisters fled at last;
Driv'n by the barb'rous nations, who from far
Burst into Latium with a tide of war.
Hence a vast change of their old manners sprung,
And forc'd the slaves to speak their master's tongue;
No honours now were paid the sacred muse,
But all were bent on mercenary views;
'Till Latium saw with joy th' Aonian train
By the great Medici, restor'd again;
Th' illustrious Medici of Tuscan race,
Were born to cherish learning in disgrace,
New life in every science to bestow,
And lull the cries of Europe in her woe.
With pity they beheld those turns of fate,
And prop'd the ruins of the Grecian state;
For lest her wit should perish with her fame
Their care supported still the Argive name;
They call'd th' aspiring youths from distant parts,
To plant Ausonia with the Grecian arts;
To bask in ease, and science to diffuse,
And to restore the empire of the muse;
They sent to ravag'd provinces with care,
And cities wasted by the rage of war,
To buy the ancients works, of deathless fame,
And snatch th' immortal labours from the flame;
To which the foes had doom'd each glorious piece,
Who reign and lord it in the realms of Greece.
(But we, ye gods, would raise a foreign lord,
As yet untaught to sheath the civil sword;)
Thro' many a period this has been the fate,
And this the list of the poetick state.

Hence sacred Virgil from thy soul adore
Above the rest, and to thy utmost pow'r
Pursue the glorious paths he struck before.
If he supplies not all your wants, peruse
Th' immortal strains of each Augustan muse.
There stop,—nor rashly seek to know the rest,
But drive the dire ambition from thy breast,
'Till riper years and judgment form thy thoughts
To mark their beauties, and avoid their faults.

Mean time, ye parents, with attention hear,
And thus advis'd exert your utmost care;
The blameless tutor from a thousand choose,
One from his soul devoted to the muse;
Who pleas'd the tender pupil to improve,
Regards, and loves him with a father's love.
Youth of it self, to num'rous ills betray'd,
Requires a prop, and wants a foreign aid;
Unless a master's rules his mind incline
To love and cultivate the sacred nine,
His thoughts a thousand objects will employ,
And from Parnassus lead the wand'ring boy.
So trusts the swain, the saplings to the earth;
So hopes in time to see the sprouting birth;
Against the winds defensive props he forms,
To shield the future forrest from the storms,
That each imbolden'd plant at length may rise
In verdant pride, and shoot into the skies.

But let the guide, if e'er he would improve
His charge, avoid his hate, and win his love;
Lest in his rage wrong measures he may take,
And loath the muses for the teacher's sake.
His soul then slacken'd from her native force,
Flags at the barrier, and forgets the course.
Curb in your wrath, nor fright the blooming crowd,
But scorn th' ungen'rous province of the rod;
Th' offended muses never can sustain
To hear the shriekings of the tender train,
But stung with grief and anguish hang behind;
Dampt is the sprightly vigor of the mind.
The boy no daring images inspire,
No bright ideas set his thoughts on fire;
He drags on heavily th' ungrateful load,
Grown obstinately dull, and season'd to the rod.

I know a pedant who to penance brought
His trembling pupils for the lightest fault;
His soul transported with a storm of ire,
And all the rage that malice could inspire;
By turns the tort'ring scourges we might hear,
By turns the shrieks of wretches stun'd the ear.
Still to my mind the dire ideas rise,
When rage unusual sparkled in his eyes;
When with the dreadful scourge insulting loud,
The tyrant terrifi'd the blooming crowd;
A boy the fairest of the frighted train,
Who yet scarce gave the promise of a man,
Ah, dismal object! idly past the day
In all the thoughtless innocence of play;
When lo! th' imperious wretch inflam'd with rage,
Fierce, and regardless of his tender age,
With fury storms; the fault his clamours urge;
His hand high-waving brandishes the scourge.
Tears, vows, and pray'rs the tyrant's ears assail;
In vain;—nor tears, nor vows, nor pray'rs prevail.
The trembling innocent from deep despair
Sicken'd, and breath'd his little soul in air.
For him old Po, beneath his poplars, mourns;
For him old Serius weeps from all his urns;
For him their tears the watry sisters shed,
Who lov'd him living, and deplor'd him dead.
The furious pedant to restrain his rage,
Should mark the example of a former age;
How fierce Alcides, warm'd with youthful ire,
Dash'd on his master's front his vocal lyre.
But yet, ye youths, confess your master's sway,
And their commands implicitly obey.

Whoever then this arduous task pursues,
To form the bard, and cultivate his muse,
Let him by softer means, and milder ways,
Warm his ambition with the love of praise;
Soon as his precepts shall have won his heart,
And fann'd the rising fire in every part,
Light is the task;—for then the eager boy
Pursues the voluntary toil with joy;
Disdains th' inglorious indolence of rest,
And feeds th' immortal ardor in his breast.

And here the common practice of the schools
By known experience justifies my rules,
The youths in social Studies to engage;
For then the rivals burn with gen'rous rage,
Each soul the stings of emulation raise,
And every little bosom beats for praise.
But gifts propos'd will urge them best to rise;
Fir'd at the glorious prospect of a prize,
With noble jealousie, the blooming bard
Reads, labours, glows, and strains for the reward;
Fears lest his happy rival win the race,
And build a triumph on his own disgrace.

But when once season'd to the rage divine,
He loves and courts the raptures of the nine,
The sense of glory, and the love of fame,
Serve but as second motives to the flame;
The thrilling pleasure all the bard subdues,
Lock'd in the strict embraces of the muse.
See! When harsh parents force the youth to quit,
For meaner arts, the dear delights of wit,
If e'er the wonted warmth his thoughts inspire,
And with past pleasures set his mind on fire;
How from his soul he longs, but longs in vain,
To haunt the groves, and purling streams again:
No stern commands of parents can controul,
No force can check the sallies of his soul.
Thus some fleet courser season'd to the rein,
That spies his females on a distant plain,
And longs to act his pleasures o'er again;
Fir'd with remembrance of his joys, he bounds,
He foams and strives to reach the well-known grounds;
The goring spurs his furious flames improve,
And rouze within him all the rage of love;
Ply'd with the scourge he still neglects his haste,
And moves reluctant, when he moves at last;
Looks often back; regrets the distant mare;
And neighs his passion to the dappled fair.

How oft' the youth would long to change his fate,
Who high advanc'd to all the pomp of state,
With grief his gawdy load of grandeur views,
Lost at too high a distance from the muse!
How oft' he sighs by warbling streams to rove,
And quit the palace for the shady grove!
How oft' in Tybur's cold retreats to lye
Beneath the rigor of the wintry sky;
And gladly stoop to chearful poverty!
But yet how many curse their fruitless toil,
Who turn and cultivate a baren soil?
This, e'er too late, the master may divine
By a sure omen, and a certain sign;
The hopeful youth, determin'd by his choice,
Works without precept, and prevents advice,
Consults his teacher, plies his task with joy,
And a quick sense of glory fires the boy.
He challenges the rest.—the conquest o'er;
He struts away the victor of an hour.
Then vanquisht in his turn; o'erwhelm'd with care,
He weeps, he pines, he sickens with despair;
Nor looks his little rivals in the face,
But flies for shelter to some lonely place,
To hide his shame, and cover his disgrace.
His master's frowns impatient to sustain,
Strait he returns, and wins the day again.
This is the boy his better fates design
To rise the future darling of the nine;
For him the muses weave the sacred crown,
And bright Apollo claims him for his own.
Not the least hope th' unactive youth can raise,
Dead to the prospect, and the sense of praise;
Who your just rules with dull attention hears,
Nor lends his understanding, but his ears.
Resolv'd his parts in indolence to keep,
He lulls his drowzy faculties asleep;
The wretch your best endeavours will betray,
And the superfluous care is thrown away.

I fear the bard who ripens e'er his prime;
For all productions there's a proper time.
Oh! may no apples in the spring appear,
Out-grow the seasons, and prevent the year,
Nor mellow yet, 'till autumn stains the vine,
And the full presses foam with floods of wine.
Torn from the parent-tree too soon, they lye
Trod down by every swain who passes by.

Nor should the youth too strictly be confin'd,
'Tis sometimes proper to unbend his mind;
When tir'd with study let him seek the plains,
And mark the homely humours of the swains;
Or pleas'd the toyls to spread, or horns to wind,
Hunt the fleet mountain-goat, or forrest-hind.
Mean time the youth, impatient that the day
Should pass in pleasures unimprov'd away,
Steals from the shouting crowd, and quits the plains,
To sing the sylvan gods in rural strains:
Or calls the muses to Albunea's shades,
Courts, and enjoys the visionary maids.
So labour'd fields with crops alternate blest,
By turns lie fallow, and indulge their rest;
The swain contented bids the hungry soil
Enjoy a sweet vicissitude from toil;
'Till earth renews her genial pow'rs to bear,
And pays his prudence with a bounteous year.

On a strict view your solid judgment frame,
Nor think that genius is in all the same;
How oft' the youth who wants the sacred fire,
Fondly mistakes for genius his desire?
Courts the coy muses, tho' rejected still,
Nor nature seconds his misguided will:
He strives, he toils with unavailing care;
Nor heav'n relents, nor Phœbus hears his pray'r.
He with success, perhaps, may plead a cause,
Shine at the bar, and flourish by the laws;
Perhaps discover nature's secret springs,
And bring to light th' originals of things.
But sometimes precept will such force impart,
That nature bends beneath the pow'r of art.

Besides, 'tis no light province to remove
From the rash boy the fiery pangs of love;
'Till ripe in years, and more confirm'd in age,
He learns to bear the flames of Cupid's rage;
Oft' hidden fires on all his vitals prey,
Devour the youth, and melt his soul away
By slow degrees;—blot out his golden dreams,
The tuneful poets, and Castalian streams;
Struck with a secret wound, he weeps and sighs;
In every thought the darling phantoms rise;
The fanci'd charmer swims before his sight,
His theme all day, his vision all the night:
The wand'ring object takes up all his care,
Nor can he quit th' imaginary fair.
Mean time his sire, unconscious of his pain,
Applies the temper'd medicines in vain;
The plague, so deeply rooted in his heart,
Mocks every slight attempt of Pæan's art;
The flames of Cupid all his breast inspire,
And in the lover's quench the poet's fire.

When in his riper years, without controul,
The nine have took possession of his soul;
When, sacred to their god, the crown he wears,
To other authors let him bend his cares;
Consult their styles, examine every part,
And a new tincture take from every art.
First study Tully's language and his sense,
And range that boundless field of eloquence.
Tully, Rome's other glory, still affords
The best expressions and the richest words;
As high o'er all in eloquence he stood,
As Rome o'er all the nations she subdu'd.
Let him read men and manners, and explore
The site and distances from shore to shore,
Then let him travel, or to maps repair,
And see imagin'd cities rising there;
Range with his eyes the earth's fictitious ball,
And pass o'er figur'd worlds that hang the wall.
Some in the bloody shock of arms appear,
To paint the native horrors of the war;
Thro' charging hosts they rush, before they write,
And plunge in all the tumult of the fight.
But since our lives contracted in their date
By scanty bounds, and cicumscrib'd by fate,
Can never launch thro' all the depths of arts,
Ye youths, touch only the material parts;
There stop your labour, there your search controul,
And draw from thence a notion of the whole.
From distant climes when the rich merchants come,
To bring the wealth of foreign regions home;
Content the friendly havens to explore,
They only touch upon the winding shore;
Nor with vain labour wander up and down
To view the land, and visit every town;
That would but call them from their former road,
To spend an age in banishment abroad;
Too late returning from the dang'rous main,
To see their countries and their friends again.

Still be the sacred poets your delight,
Read 'em by day, consult 'em in the night;
From those clear fountains all your raptures bring,
And draw for ever from the muses spring.
But let your subject in your bosom roll,
Claim every thought, and draw in all the soul.
That constant object to your mind display,
Your toil all night, your labour all the day.

I need not here the rules of verse disclose,
Nor how their various measures to dispose;
The tutor here with ease his charge may guide
To join the parts and numbers, or divide.
Now let him words to stated laws submit,
Or yoke to measures, or reduce to feet;
Now let him softly to himself rehearse
His first attempts and rudiments of verse;
Fix on those rich expressions his regard
To use made sacred by some antient bard;
Tost by a different gust of hopes and fears,
He begs of heav'n an hundred eyes and ears.
Now here, now there coy nature he pursues,
And takes one image in a thousand views.
He waits the happy minute that affords
The noblest thoughts, and most expressive words.
He brooks no dull delay; admits no rest;
A tide of passions struggles in his breast;
Round his dark soul no clear ideas play,
The most familiar objects glide away.
All fixt in thought, astonisht he appears,
His soul examines, and consults his ears;
And racks his faithless memory, to find
Some traces faintly sketch'd upon his mind.
There he unlocks the glorious magazine,
And opens every faculty within;
Brings out with pride their intellectual spoils,
And with the noble treasure crowns his toils;
And oft' meer chance shall images display,
That strike his mind engag'd a different way.
Still he persists; regrets no toil nor pain,
And still the task, he tri'd before in vain,
Plies with unweari'd diligence again.
For oft' unmanageable thoughts appear,
That mock his labour, and delude his care;
Th' impatient bard, with all his nerves appli'd,
Tries all the avenues on every side;
Resolv'd and bent the precipice to gain;
Tho' yet he labours at the rock in vain;
By his own strength and heav'n, with conquest grac'd,
He wins th' important victory at last;
Stretch'd by his hands the vanquisht monster lies,
And the proud triumph lifts him to the skies.
But when ev'n chance and all his efforts fail,
Nor toils, nor vigilance, nor cares prevail;
His past attempts the boy in vain renews,
And waits the softer seasons of the muse;
He quits his work; throws by his fond desires;
And from his task reluctantly retires.

Thus o'er the fields the swain pursues his road,
Till stopt at length by some impervious flood,
That from a mountain's brow, o'ercharg'd with rains,
Bursts in a thund'ring tide, and foams along the plains;
With horror chill'd, he traverses the shore,
Sees the waves rise, and hears the torrent roar;
Then griev'd returns; or waits with vain delay,
Till the tumultuous deluge rolls away.

But in no Iliad let the youth engage
His tender years, and unexperienc'd age;
Let him by just degrees and steps proceed,
Sing with the swains, and tune the slender reed;
He with success an humbler theme may ply,
And, Virgil-like, immortalize a fly:
Or sing the mice, their battles and attacks,
Against the croaking natives of the lakes:
Or with what art her toils the spider sets,
And spins her filmy entrails into nets.

And here embrace, ye teachers, this advice;
Not to be too inquisitively nice,
But till the soul enlarg'd in strength appears,
Indulge the boy, and spare his tender years;
'Till, to ripe judgment and experience brought,
Himself discerns and blushes at a fault;
For if the criticks eyes too strictly pierce,
To point each blemish out in every verse,
Void of all hope the stripling may depart
And turn his genius to another art.
But if resolv'd his darling faults to see,
A youth of genius should apply to me,
And court my elder judgment to peruse
Th' imperfect labours of his infant muse;
I should not scruple with a candid eye,
To read and praise his verses to the sky;
With seeming rapture on each line to pause,
And dwell on each expression with applause.
But when my praises had inflam'd his Mind,
If some lame verse limp'd slowly up behind;
One, that himself, unconscious, had not found,
By numbers charm'd, and led away by sound;
I should not fear to minister a prop,
And give him stronger feet to keep it up;
Teach it to run along more firm and sure;
Nor would I show the wound before the cure.

For what remains; the poet I enjoyn
To form no glorious scheme, no great design,
'Till free from business he retires alone,
And flies the giddy tumult of the Town;
Seeks rural pleasures, and enjoys the glades,
And courts the thoughtful silence of the shades,
Where the fair Dryads haunt their native woods
With all the orders of the sylvan Gods.
Here in their soft retreats the poets lye,
Serene, and blest with chearful poverty;
No guilty schemes of wealth their souls molest,
No cares, no prospects discompose their rest;
No scenes of grandeur glitter in their view;
Here they the joys of innocence pursue,
And taste the Pleasures of the happy few.
From a rock's entrails the barbarian sprung
Who dares to violate the sacred Throng
By deeds or words—The wretch, by fury driv'n,
Assaults the darling colony of Heav'n!
Some have look'd down, we know, with scornful Eyes
On the bright muse who taught 'em how to rise,
And paid, when rais'd to grandeur, no regard
From that high station to the sacred bard.
Uninjur'd, mortals, let the poets lye,
Or dread th' impending vengeance of the sky;
The Gods still listen'd to their constant pray'r,
And made the poets their peculiar care.
They, with contempt on fortune's gifts look down
And laugh at kings who fill an envy'd throne.
Rais'd on the noble prospect of the mind,
From that proud eminence they view mankind
Lost in a cloud; they see them toil below,
All busie to promote their common woe.
Of guilt unconscious, with a steddy soul,
They see the lightnings flash, and hear the thunders roll.
When girt with terrors, heav'ns almighty sire
Launches his triple bolts, and forky fire,
When o'er high tow'rs the red destroyer plays,
And strikes the mountains with the pointed blaze;
Safe in their innocence, like gods, they rise,
And lift their souls serenely to the skies.

Fly, ye profane;—the sacred nine were giv'n
To bless these lower worlds by bounteous heav'n:
Of old, Prometheus, from the realms above,
Brought down these daughters of almighty Jove,
When to his native earth the robber came,
Charg'd with the plunder of ethereal flame.
As due compassion touch'd his gen'rous mind,
To see the savage state of humankind;
When led to range at large the bright abodes,
And share th' ambrosial banquets of the gods;
In many a whirl he saw Olympus driv'n,
And heard th' eternal harmony of heav'n.
Turn'd round and round the consort charm'd his ears
With all the musick of the dancing spheres;
The sacred nine his wond'ring eyes behold,
As each her orb in just divisions roll'd;
The thief beholds them, with ambitious eyes,
And bent on fraud, he meditates the prize,
As the most noble gift he could bestow
(Next to the fire) on human race below;
At length th' immortals reconcil'd, resign'd
The fair celestial sisters to mankind.
Tho' bound to Caucasus with solid chains,
Th' aspiring robber groan'd in endless pains;
By which deter'd, for ages lay supine
The race of mortals, nor invok'd the nine;
'Till heav'n in verse shew'd man his future state,
And open'd every distant scene of fate.
First the great father of the gods above,
Sung in Dodona, and the Lybian grove;
Next to th' enquiring nations Themis gave
Her sacred answers from the Phocian cave;
Then Phœbus warn'd 'em from the Delphick dome
Of future times, and ages yet to come;
And rev'rend Faunus utter'd truths divine
To the first founders of the Latian line.
Next the great race of hallow'd prophets came,
With them the sybils of immortal fame,
Inspir'd with all the God; who rapt on high
With more than mortal rage unbounded fly,
And range the dark recesses of the sky.
Next at their feasts, the people sung their lays,
(The same their prophets sung in former days)
Their Theme an hero, and his deathless praise.

What has to man of nobler worth been giv'n,
Than this the best and greatest gift of Heav'n?
Whatever pow'r the glorious gift bestow'd;
We trace the certain footsteps of a God;
By thee inspir'd, the daring poet flies,
His soul mounts up, and tow'rs above the skies;
Thou art the source of pleasure, and we see
No joy, no transport, when debarr'd of thee,
Thy tuneful deity the feather'd throng
Confess in all the measures of their song.
Thy great commands the salvages obey,
And every silent native of the sea:
Led by thy voice the starting rocks advance,
And listning forests mingle in the dance.
On thy sweet notes the damn'd rejoic'd to dwell,
Thy strains suspended all the din of hell;
Lull'd by the sound the furies rag'd no more,
And hell's infernal porter ceas'd to roar.
Thy pow'rs exalt us to the realms above,
To feast with Gods, and sit the guests of Jove;
Thy sov'reign presence softens ev'ry grief,
And reconciles the bitter load of life;
Hail thou bright comfort of these low abodes,
Thou joy of men and darling of the Gods.
As Preist and Poet in these humble lays,
I boldly labour to resound thy praise;
To hang thy shrines this gift I bring along,
And to thy altars guide the tender throng.